“Too bad for France, Colonel,” Alex said. “One of these days you might need his help. But then if France asks, he’ll probably come running. It’s what he does, didn’t you know?”
Bete didn’t answer.
They took the feeder road that ran alongside the Seine to the ring road that connected to the A3 out to Charles de Gaulle, sweeping past traffic, their speeds sometimes topping 150 kilometers per hour.
At the airport they were passed through the security gates to the commercial hangar, where the Gulfstream had been trundled out to the tarmac, its engines idling, its hatch open, its stairs down.
Bete got out with them. “I understand your sentiment, Mademoiselle Unroth. Despite who you are, Monsieur McGarvey has stepped into the fray to help save your life, though it’s beyond me why, except that, as you intimate, he is a good man. But he is no longer welcome in France.” He glanced at McGarvey and nodded. “At least not in the near term.”
He and McGarvey shook hands, and Alex went first aboard the Gulfstream, McGarvey right behind her.
Their pilot, Donald Roper, was turned in his seat as Maggie pulled up the stairs and closed and dogged the hatch. “We’ll have to hustle to beat the Turkish Airlines flight by the one hour you want. She’s a 747–400 and has about ten knots on us.”
“Anytime you’re ready, Captain,” McGarvey said.
He and Alex went aft and strapped in.
Maggie came back. “We’re eighth for takeoff. May I get either of you something to drink? I’ll be serving steaks with baked potatoes and salads once we’re at ten thousand feet.”
“May I have a glass of champagne?” Alex asked.
“Of course. For you, Mr. Director?”
“A cognac, and then I’m going to get some sleep. It’s been a hell of a long day.”
“No dinner?”
“Not for me.”
The attendant went forward.
“She’s a pretty girl, but then so is Pete,” Alex said. “She’s in love with you.”
“Stay out of it,” McGarvey growled.
They started away from the hangar and onto the taxi way, toward the active runway, and joined a lineup of six much larger jets and a Boeing 777 just turning into place for takeoff.
“Once they find out Pete’s an imposter, they’ll figure out I came in the back door with you, and George will send someone to try to kill me.”
“Then why are you doing this? Why go to him?”
“To see if someone actually tries.”
“Then what?”
“I’ll find him, providing you let me keep Pete’s papers and CIA identification booklet. And her gun.”
“The Israelis won’t appreciate the CIA bringing in a ringer right under their noses. Armed.”
“Only to defend myself.”
“That’s what the Hezbollah terrorists claim.”
Alex looked away. “I’ll do it on my own if I have to,” she said. “But once Pete is outed, the Mossad is going to take a real interest in you. They might even bring you to someone who will claim to have been the control officer for the op in Iraq. But you won’t have any possible way of knowing if he himself isn’t a ringer.”
“Not with you there.”
Alex looked at him and nodded. “You’re probably right,” she said.
It was early evening, Tel Aviv time when the pilot called McGarvey and said they were one hour from landing at Ben Gurion, which would put them nearly one hour ahead of the Turkish Airlines flight.
“Who will be meeting us?”
“They didn’t say, but from the tone of the guy I just got off the radio with, it’ll be Mossad. They’ve already checked Langley to find out who we were. Your name and Ms. Boylan’s were mentioned, and they wanted to know the nature of your flight. I played dumb.”
“Good job, Captain, thanks. I’m going to make a sat phone call now.”
“You may use the aircraft’s equipment.”
“Thanks, but from this point, they’ll be monitoring every transmission that comes from us.”
“But not your sat phone?”
“Mr. Rencke designed it,” McGarvey said.
“I see.”
Otto was at his desk when Mac’s call came in. “The Mossad has taken an interest in you guys,” he said. “But Walt’s still backing you up, over Marty’s objections.”
“Is anyone on the Hill or the White House asking questions?”
“Nada, except they want updates on our serial killer. But everyone’s damned glad the problem seems to have gone away. I let it slip that the killer was definitely off campus, and probably out of the country. Marty sent our station chiefs the heads-up.”
“No mention of Alex?”
“None. Unless someone takes a look at the Sûreté’s day sheets over the past twenty-four hours. But the DGSE has promised to temporarily delay making positive IDs on you or Alex.”
“I’m sure no one in France is happy about it.”
“A firestorm would be more accurate. Wouldn’t have been half so bad except the guy who took the hit at the café was a stockbroker. He was there meeting his mistress, who is the wife of the minister of finance. Figaro is speculating he was assassinated on the minister’s behalf, and that his recent string of successes on the Paris Bourse were because of insider information he was getting from the wife.”
“That story won’t hold for long,” McGarvey said.
“How much time do you need?”
“Seventy-two hours ideally, but at least forty-eight. I think we’re getting close.”
“Somebody else does too; otherwise, they wouldn’t have taken the risk of trying to take her out in Paris,” Otto said. “One other thing: the DGSE thinks it has a positive ID on the shooter they fished out of the river. The Barrett was registered to a fictitious name at an accommodations box in London, which led them to an SIS investigation of a Brit by the name of Hamid Cabbage — mom was an Israeli, dad was a Scotland Yard counterterrorist officer who sometimes did contract work for the Mossad. Thing is, the son took off on his own and did some freelance assassinations.”
“Trained in Israel, but then left after a short period?” McGarvey asked.
“The French sent over blood and mouth swab samples for a DNA match. But that’s going to take a few days.”
“He could have been working for the Mossad, or for someone else,” McGarvey said.
FIFTY-FIVE
Otto turned his battered old Mercedes diesel over to the valet parker at the Hotel George, just down the block from Union Station, and went inside to the bistro and bar. He gave the name Tony Samson to the maître d’, who had a server take him to a table upstairs, where an older woman with gray hair, sagging eyelids, and drooping jowls was just finishing a martini.
“Mrs. Fegan,” Otto said.
The woman looked up and then smiled uncertainly. “Actually, it’s been Ms. for the past five years. You’re Mr. Samson?”
Otto nodded and sat down. The waiter came, and Otto ordered a house red. She ordered another Tanqueray martini straight up.
“I don’t know how much help I can be. I don’t have any proof. Only things I heard.”
The woman had been on Robert Benning’s staff when he was the assistant ambassador to the UN. Her job had been to expedite the briefing papers and books he used. She’d made it clear during their two Skype conversations before she agreed to meet that she had never created any positions, or even interpreted the raw data that came into the office. Her job was just a small step above a secretary’s.
Louise had dressed Otto for the occasion, with new boat shoes, crisply ironed jeans, a spotless button-up white shirt, and a dark blue blazer from Brooks Brothers. His long frizzy red hair was tied in a ponytail. She assured him he looked fashionable.